The Violence of Existing
by Marenfic
Summary: On permanent, unfinished Hiatus. Buffy is brought back from the dead and flees Sunnydale. Assassinations, tattoos, and drugs--oh my! Eventually BA
1. First Thoughts

Email: marenfic@yahoo.com

  
Summary:  This fic takes off after Buffy is brought back to life in Bargaining (Season 6).  Events of Season 6 BtVS won't happen, but AtS Season 3 will occur as they did until Connor is kidnapped.  From there, events diverge a little, although I'll be retaining some elements.  Most importantly, baby Connor never comes back as angry teen Connor—he is lost to Angel for good.  

  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, or any song lyrics. 

  
Pairings: B/?; A/C, eventually B/A

Rating:  Eventually R

  
Feedback: Please!!!

Thanks to:  bashipforever, who writes wonderful B/A and inspired me to torture these characters a lot before letting them be happy; also Sarah McLachlan who provided the fic title.  

A/N:  Italics generally indicate direct thoughts of characters unless they indicate emphasis—it should be easy to tell which is which.

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_Hurts.  So bright, so loud, so hard.  No, please.  No._

Those were the words that made up the woman's first coherent thoughts after her soul was shoved back into her body, after the magic had repaired and reanimated her rotting flesh, after she frantically dug her way out of the box that held her trapped under several feet of earth.  Those were the first words that entered her mind after she tried to make out the shifting, hazy forms that swam in her not-yet-working vision, after she struggled to make sense of the riotous sounds that were pounding into her newly awakened ears, after she started trying to breath through her mouth so that she wouldn't have to breath in the acrid smell of the burning town.  Those were the first words that invaded her fuzzy consciousness after she mindlessly, almost effortlessly, fought the demons who had cornered her in the alley.

Those were the first words that shoved their way into the woman's head, pounding and unrelenting, as she crouched against the brick wall, four strangely familiar faces peering at her as though she were some circus attraction.

With a cry that sounded like that of a wounded animal, the woman pulled herself up off of the ground and pushed past the people who were crowding her, suffocating her.  

_NopleaseNo.  Hurts.  Have to run.  Have to hide._

Those were the second set of words that were spoken by the broken, raw voice in her head.  An instant later she was throwing one leg over the seat of a dead demon's motorcycle and kicking it into gear.  The sound of the roaring engine and the sensations of the rumbling bike under her were nearly painful in their intensity, but she preferred the discomfort they offered to the bracing, harsh reality staring at her from the eyes of those people who kept calling her "Buffy".

**********

Three days later, Buffy found herself shivering in the shadows in an alley across the street from her father's apartment in L.A.  She was cold, tired, and ravenously hungry, but she couldn't make herself approach the glass double-doors that would lead into the warm, safe interior of the building.

Her memories had started coming back two days ago.  She had fled the loud, burning town on the stolen motorcycle without knowing who she was, where she was (other than hell), or where she was going.  She had gotten about an hour out of town before stopping at the side of the road and pulling into a small wooded area.  It was quieter there, no people, and she wanted to rest but she couldn't.  No matter how tightly she closed her eyes, she couldn't stop the memories from flooding in and they were harsh and painful and full of blood and death.  

Those memories haunted her now as she stood in shoes with broken heels, her burial dress torn and bloody.  As much as she was in desperate need of food and sleep, she couldn't take those final steps.  She couldn't go to her father in his safe, normal upscale apartment in L.A. because she wasn't safe—she wasn't normal.  She couldn't seek shelter with the people who loved her—not her father, not Willow, not Xander, not Dawn, not Giles.  She couldn't allow them to see her for what she finally realized she was.  She was Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and she was a freak who wasn't welcome in Heaven or in Hell.    

Buffy slowly turned away from the beckoning warmth of her father's apartment building and retreated further into the dark, dank alley.  She realized now that she was a creature of night, something that belonged in the darkness, in the dankness with the other dangerous beings.  She realized why the Watcher's Council must have wanted all the slayers to live their lives alone and carefully controlled.  Beings like her were hazardous.  Buffy had refused to accept that she couldn't live a normal life, have normal friends, do normal things like go to school and have human boyfriends.  Now she knew for sure that she wasn't normal and could never be normal.  The funny thing was that she also knew she wasn't a truly evil being either—otherwise, when she was expelled from Heaven she would have gone to a Hell dimension.  She had died, after all.  Fair and square.  But here she was back on earth . . . 

_It might as well be hell_

. . . and so she had to assume that neither place wanted her soul.  She didn't dare think about the implications of that, that her soul would be bound to earth for eternity, never knowing the oblivion of death, never knowing peace . . .

_Damn, I can't think about this now_  

So she didn't.  She shut off those thoughts, shut off the few emotions that weren't already dead inside her.  Buffy didn't cry for the loss of her life, her death, her dreams and her peace.  She just didn't have it inside her.  There were no tears, only pain and coldness.  Darkness.  The Slayer.  

_Slayer_

When the quartet of three-mouthed demons surrounded her, it came as no surprise.  This was her world and she had been a fool to deny it for so long.  Perhaps it was this realization or perhaps it was the fact that she didn't fear death any longer, but when she spun into action, the fight seemed almost effortless to her.  She felt . . . detached.  Her mind was blank and free of the fear of losing something important to her for the first time ever.  She was a machine, an instrument of destruction and death, and she embraced it fully for the first time.  

With her mind free of distraction, her body was free to fight at its full potential for the first time in her life (or death).  Her fighting body was a thing of treacherous, fatal beauty—what one could see of it anyway.  She was a kicking, punching blur of magnificent force.  Weaponless, she destroyed the four deadly demons who had mistaken her for a meal in less than 2 minutes, her only injury the reopening of the wounds on her knuckles that had come from clawing herself out of her grave.

As she gazed down at her bleeding knuckles, the first spark of feeling other than pain flickered inside before quickly fading back out.  Buffy knew it was the adrenaline of the fight that sparked the fleetingly pleasant feeling, and it made sense to her.  She was made to be a killer.  Killing _should_ feel good to her.

The crunch of a boot on a stray rock abruptly pulled her attention away from her knuckles and she searched the darkness for the source of the noise.  Two, then three seconds passed by before she caught a glimpse of the masked sniper dressed completely in black stalking towards her, and then the blackness of the sniper's clothing turned into the blackness of nothingness as the tranquilizer shot into her bloodstream.          

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	2. Consuming Darkness

Email: marenfic@yahoo.com

  
Summary:  This fic takes off after Buffy is brought back to life in Bargaining (Season 6).  Events of Season 6 BtVS won't happen, but AtS Season 3 will occur as they did until Connor is kidnapped.  From there, events diverge a little, although I'll be retaining some elements.  Most importantly, baby Connor never comes back as angry teen Connor—he is lost to Angel for good.  

  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, or any song lyrics. 

  
Pairings: B/?; A/C, eventually B/A

Rating:  Eventually R

  
Feedback: Please!!!

Thanks to:  bashipforever, who writes wonderful B/A and inspired me to torture these characters a lot before letting them be happy; also Sarah McLachlan who provided the fic title.  

A/N:  Italics generally indicate direct thoughts of characters.  The first set of italics in this chapter represents a dream.

**********

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_It was dark, but the dark wasn't scary—it was welcoming.  It allowed her a certain anonymity, provided her with a small measure of comfort that was otherwise missing in her life (Life? Is that what this was?)_

_She swam through the darkness, not needing to breathe, not needing to see.  She allowed herself to feel the tactile stimulation of the thick darkness washing across her skin and it was a balm for her weary soul. _

_Suddenly, a bright, unrelenting light appeared in front of her in the distance.  She tried to turn, tried to avoid it, but the light was a beacon and her soul was drawn to it as though it were home.  It took all of her strength, all of her determination, to stop at the threshold between light and dark, balancing just behind the curtain of darkness as though she were looking through a thin veil of clear, clean water to the side of light._

_The woman in front of her was familiar.  Blonde.  Hazel-green eyes.  Tanned skin and short flowery skirt.  _

_"Buffy," she said to the woman basking in the light._

_"Slayer," Buffy replied, her voice tinged with a sadness and longing that the Slayer couldn't quite understand.    _

_The Slayer waited in silence.  She hadn't wanted to come.  _

_"It's your turn now," Buffy said, her eyes boring into the Slayer's._

_"I know," the Slayer answered._

_Buffy reached out one of her manicured hands to touch the barrier that separated her light from the dark that still encased the Slayer.  She let the darkness flow over her hand for a moment before snatching it back to her side, quickly as though the darkness had burned.  _

_"I had to touch the darkness to survive," Buffy said, mournfully._

_"I am the darkness," said the Slayer._

_"Someday, you will have to be the one to reach out," Buffy informed her._

_"Touch the light?  I wouldn't know how," the Slayer said dismissively._

_"If you forget me, you'll never find the light, you'll never find the balance," Buffy warned._

_And then the barrier was receding, Buffy was fading into the distance, and the calming darkness surrounded her once again.  No more light._

_It was a relief._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

The slayer slowly opened her eyes to see a light only a little less brilliant, a little less blinding than that in her dream.  She was lying on her back and she quickly discovered that she was being held there with restraints around her wrists, waist, and ankles.  She slowly turned her head to the side, partly to see what she could of her surroundings, and partly to avoid the glaring overhead lights.  

She was in a stark white room.  It reminded her of the Initiative containment cells, but from what she could see there wasn't a glass wall.  She shifted her head in the opposite direction and saw an imposing steel door.  There was some kind of security device mounted to the wall next to it that looked like a keypad set under an expanse of blue screen.  Once she had seen as much of the room as her restraints would allow, she tilted her chin toward her chest.  The thin white material covering her body looked a lot like hospital scrubs, and she sighed in relief.

_Who do I thank for not being naked?_

She was just beginning to test the strength of her restraints when she heard a whoosh of air coming from the direction of the door.  She turned her head just in time to see a man in an obviously expensive dark grey suit enter, the heavy door sliding shut behind him.  He appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties, with dark hair that was just beginning to turn prematurely gray.  The gray hadn't yet found its way to his dark goatee, though, and his eyes were a beautiful, piercing blue.  

"Hello.  I'm glad to see you've finally awakened.  We weren't sure how much tranquilizer it would take to safely transport you and I'm afraid we may have overestimated.  Please forgive us," the man began, his voice soothing, but tinged with a certain hardness.

She wanted to ask how long she had been out, but she decided to stay quiet for the moment.  She simply stared impassively into his handsome face, waiting for him to continue.  

It was several moments before he spoke again.  First he approached the table she was strapped to and hit a button that tilted her prone body forward so that she was facing him in a quasi-standing position.  

"We've run your prints through the database and we know your name is Buffy Anne Summers, most recently of Sunnydale, California," 

"You're wrong," she spoke for the first time, a small, cold smile touching her pink lips.  "Buffy is gone, died about 3 months ago actually.  But I'm here, and if you think these leather restraints and that fancy steel door with a security code are going to keep me from leaving, you're deluded."

"Oh, but Buffy, we don't want to keep you from leaving," the man answered with his own calculating smile.

The slayer ripped her right arm free from the restraint and had her hand clasped around his throat in a heartbeat.  "I'd suggest you stop calling me Buffy and start telling me what you want from me, then," she gritted out between her teeth.

If the slayer hadn't seen the tiny speck of fear that flickered in the man's eye for a millisecond before disappearing, she would have thought him immune to the threat of her hand painfully squeezing his windpipe. 

"We want to offer you a job," rasped the man.  He was rewarded when she loosened her grip and dropped her hand, giving him a calculating look.  He stepped back out of her reach and rubbed his throat before continuing, "and what would you like to be called, if not by your name?"

"You can call me Slayer."     

"Ah, the Vampire Slayer.  Of course—whatever you want.  My name is Harris, by the way.  I've been assigned to be your contact with the organization and I've been authorized to offer you a position that will make good use of your unique skills."

Slayer narrowed her eyes and studied his face for signs of deception.  When she couldn't detect any, she shrugged her shoulders and moved her free hand to the restraint at her other wrist.  

"I'll probably be more open to your offer if we can have this little meeting without me being tied to a cold table—dontcha think?" she asked, signaling to him that she should start unfastening her ankles if he wanted her cooperation.

"Yes, of course," he replied, moving to help her out of the restraints.  A minute later, Slayer and Harris stood face-to-face on the cold white floor.  At least it was cold to her—they hadn't provided her with any shoes or socks.

_Hey, you whiner.  Naked feet better than naked ass.  Get over it._

Harris watched Slayer as she moved to lean one shoulder casually against the wall, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her slight weight resting on one leg as the other crossed casually over its mate and rested on the toes of her bare foot.  He was impressed with her causal aloofness, with her apparent lack of panic at having been captured and removed to an unknown location.  She was either very brave or very stupid, and from what he had seen on the infrared cameras that had recorded the action in the alley where they had found her, he would bet on the former.  

"You're probably wondering where you are," he began.  "I'm not able to give you specific details until you accept our offer, but I can tell you that you are still in Los Angeles and we are. . ."

"A secret government agency that's aware of the existence of demons," the slayer interrupted with a roll of her eyes.  "Tell me something I don't already know."

Harris raised an eyebrow in surprise and chuckled.  "All right.  We're not associated with The Initiative, if that's what you're thinking.  We're more like a demon-world-acknowledging version of the CIA.  In fact, our mission is to help protect and ensure the stability of the United States government in this dimension while developing relationships with the governing bodies of other dimensions."

A very unladylike snort came out of Slayer's nose.  "So you want me to be some kind of hell-dimension ambassador?" she asked in amused disbelief.  

Her amusement was quickly obliterated at the hard look that stole over Harris's face.  

"No.  Your appointment would fall more in the 'protection' arena.  Why don't I take you on a little tour of the facility?  What we're offering you might become more clear in the context of our assets," he suggested as he moved toward the door.  

Slayer shrugged in indifference, but uncrossed her arms and pushed off of the wall she had been leaning on.  

_As long as I'm not wanted in Heaven, I might as well see what Hell has to offer._

Harris pressed his hand over the blue screen that Slayer had noticed as she was lying prone on the cold table.  Apparently it was some handprint scanning device.  He pressed in a code and the door slid open, revealing a much less harshly lit hallway that was carpeted in standard office Berber.  Standing back, Harris swept his arm out in front of him.

"After you," he said.  

**********************

Two hours later, the blonde slayer was trying to process all of the information she had gathered on their tour of the sprawling underground buildings.  In addition to rooms devoted to the latest technological advances. . . 

_I hope they don't expect me to know what to do with a computer_

. . . there were rooms of ancient, modern, and space-age weapons, facilities for training on those methods, and additional space devoted to other aspects of physical training.  Weight rooms, swimming pools, a full-size indoor track, three dojos, and a room devoted to boxing that included a full-size ring were all part of the training complex.  

She had watched as some very buff men and a few muscular women had sparred with a master ju jitsu instructor in one training room.  The slayer could not help but appreciate the things that she could learn from the instructors in this place, not to mention the other students.  She had been surprised to see two pairs of boxing gloves bouncing around in the ring, seemingly suspended in mid-air.  When she had looked at Harris quizzically, the man had smiled at her before answering her unvocal zed question.

"We have a cadre of invisible people who are employed in the agency," he said.

"Cool.  I think," she had replied.

Now she found herself seated in a large chair in Harris's office.  She was fairly certain he was planning to offer her a job slaying for the agency.  She soon found out she wasn't far off the mark.

Harris slipped on a pair of stylish glasses and pulled a contract out of a folder labeled "Summers, B.A." that was sitting on his desk.  He handed it to her from across the desk.  

"Miss Summ. . . pardon me, I mean Slayer.  We are prepared to offer you a position as an agency asset in the Department of Problem Elimination.  DPE is a highly sensitive and secretive department even within our own agency—they take care of the things that 'go bump in the night' that even other things that 'go bump in the night' are afraid of.  They also are charged with dealing with protecting this country, the world even, from those in this dimension and in others who would threaten it magically or demonically.  As an asset, you would be asked to fulfill duties very similar to those you have already employed in the capacity of Vampire Slayer on the Hellmouth.  However, your assignments might sometimes include targets with whom you are less familiar dealing with."

"Like. . ." Slayer began, instructing him to fill in the blanks with the single word.

"Humans.  Sometimes we are forced to deal with humans who are involved in magic, demon-worship, or just plan greed.  With the security of our country at risk, we often cannot or will not differentiate between a non-human threat and a human threat," Harris explained, his sharp blue eyes boring into the slayer so that he could read her reaction to this news.

She was a little surprised.  One thing that Giles had taught her early was that humans didn't fall in the slayer's domain of justice-delivery.  She herself had condemned Faith for taking the life of a corrupted man.  Slayer's eyes momentarily darkened in something like consternation, but the soothing caress of deadened emotion beat back any distress that she might have felt in her former life.  

"So you're saying you want me to be an assassin," she said, her words more of a statement than a question.       

"We prefer the term "asset", but yes, you would essentially be an assassin," Harris affirmed.

Slayer considered this for a moment.  "Why, though?  Why should I agree to this and why do you want me?  I had this responsibility long before you came along and you saw yourself tonight that I'll kill demons if they cross my path—I don't need a formal assignment to do it."

Harris smiled at her again, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.  "Why do we want you?  That's easy.  Your performance tonight was outstanding.  Three separate highly-trained DPE assets have tried to take out that particular foursome of Ro'schar demons, and two of them were killed in the process.  The third is the one who tranq'ed you and brought you in.  You killed those demons in less than 5 minutes with no weapon but your own body.  Having you join the agency as an asset would be unprecedented and we would be positioned to move in several problem areas that have been put on hold while we attempt to cover the biggest threats."

"What are we offering you?" he continued.  "You have worked for 6 years as the slayer with no compensation.  We are willing to make up for that lost earning potential as well as pay you handsomely for your current service.  You will be provided with the finest tactical training in this dimension.  In short, you will have the opportunity to hone your skills to their optimum level with full agency support."

The slayer considered the offer in silence, her eyes boring into those of the man seated across the desk.

"Sounds great.  So what's the catch?" she asked, breaking the silence, but not her stare.  If he was lying to her, or hiding something, she would know.

"The catch is that once you're trained and in the field, you work at your own risk.  This is a dangerous occupation—physically and politically.  The agency has to be able to maintain deniability," he answered smoothly.

"Ah-hah!  So don't come crying to you over my spilled blood, right?" 

"Something like that," Harris answered.  "If you sign the contract, you will spend 6 months living and training in the facility.  At the end of the 6 months, you will be returned to civilization, so to speak.  You will be given the access codes to an off-shore bank account where we will send you untraceable payments for your services.  The physical location of this facility will never be divulged to you.  You will not have access to this facility after 6 months.  The only person in the agency you will communicate with is me, and you will be expected to carry out my orders without question."

The terms of this arrangement weren't looking very appealing to Slayer.  Her instincts told her that it was wrong to sell her services to the government, wrong to even consider slaying humans no matter their crime, and definitely wrong to put her trust in this mysterious man who would be her only connection to her employers.

Then again, what good was right for a freak like her?  Doing right hadn't gotten her a permanent place in Heaven, and she certainly didn't think anything that had been described to her was so wrong that she'd be banished immediately to a hell dimension.  As Buffy, the slayer was trained to see the world in black and white, good and bad, right and wrong.  As Slayer, the woman seriously considered the concept of moral grayness for the first time.  The more she considered it, the more she liked it.

"O.k.  I'll do it, but I have some conditions of my own.  While I'm here I want privacy and I don't want to stay in a cold, bright white room.  I need darkness.  And once I'm out I get to say no to a job once in a while without having to explain why," she told Harris.

"I can give you privacy, I can give you the darkest, most morbid accommodations we have, but I can't give you veto power.  That's a no-go," he countered.

Slayer considered the terms for a moment, then pulled the contract closer to her on the desk.  She frowned at the name that was typed on the signature line, but signed it 'Buffy A. Summers' anyway.  She was a DPE asset.  

_It'll give me something to do with my sentence here on earth, I guess._

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	3. Goddess of the Hunt

Email: marenfic@yahoo.com

Live Journal: 

  
Summary:  This fic takes off after Buffy is brought back to life in Bargaining (Season 6).  Events of Season 6 BtVS won't happen, but AtS Season 3 will occur as they did until Connor is kidnapped.  From there, events diverge a little, although I'll be retaining some elements.  Most importantly, baby Connor never comes back as angry teen Connor—he is lost to Angel for good.  

  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. 

  
Pairings: B/?; references to A/C,  will eventually be B/A but you'll have to work for it.

Rating:  R for language and sexual situations; Read at if you want to read the NC-17 version.

Warning:  This fic is pretty dark and there will be character death.  Read at your own risk.

  
Feedback: Please!!!

A/N:  Italics generally indicate direct thoughts of characters unless they indicate emphasis—it should be easy to tell which is which.

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~~~Two Years Later~~~

The woman stood at the bar, her eyes on the mirror that spanned the wall in front of her, the reflection of dozens of colorful bottles of liquor neatly lined up in front of it giving the impression that the bar could never possibly run out of stock.  She watched as the masses of new-age L.A. debutantes, with their daddy's money and their mommy's bottle-blonde hair, gyrated to the hip-hop noise that was coming out of the huge black speakers in pounding waves of nearly tangible sound.  Each one was staging a show for the boys who cast appraising, hungry eyes at them, and the woman knew what they wanted.  Some were here in a misguided attempt to meet the man of their dreams-- the father of their future children-- their provider when daddy died from screwing his mistress.  She felt nothing but contempt for them.  Others were here to move until they were sweating and breathing hard, here to rub up against willing, firm bodies until they felt the twinge and flood of arousal, here to tease themselves and those around them with inaccessible sexuality.  For these, the woman felt something not unlike sympathy.  She remembered a time when she had been one of them. 

_Silly little short schoolgirl skirts. Think that five times fast._

She looked down at the shot glass in front of her and considered the amber liquid inside.  It would be so easy to teach them all a lesson about what these boys who were masquerading as men really wanted.  They didn't want wives, and they didn't want teases.  They wanted a woman who would fuck and then leave without wanting anything else, and she knew that from experience.  They wanted a woman like her, and it would take her less than 60-seconds to prove it. 

Her thoughts were momentarily distracted when she felt a large, strong hand caress her black leather clad ass.  She tensed slightly in reaction—men who touched her without her permission always ended up regretting it.  A quick glance back up to the mirror assuaged her irritation, and she relaxed again.  This man had privileges that others didn't.

"Contemplating body shots again, Diana?" he asked, his English accent tinged with the droll sarcasm that he had honed to near perfection, one eyebrow raised in mock censure.  

The woman rolled her eyes at the mirror and then slammed back the tequila before turning sideways to face him. 

"Why Wes, you know you're the last guy to have had that pleasure," she answered, leaning against the bar and running one hand seductively across the part of her hip that her low-waisted pants left partially exposed before dragging the tip of her finger over her stomach and up her chest until it rested between the cleavage visible out of the top of the black lace shirt.  She gestured to the empty shot glass with her head while her finger traced a light, almost absent-minded path between her breasts.  "I can order another one if you want to do it again."

His blue-gray eyes sparkled with interest, but he ignored her offer.  "How many have you had already?" he asked.

She dropped her hand from her chest and shrugged, her boredom supremely evident even in the barely noticeable movement.  "Four, maybe five."

He casually leaned toward her until his lips were brushing the sensitive skin of her ear.  "Have you eliminated the target yet?" he asked, his voice a soft, seductive whisper.  

Stepping into him and turning so that her back faced his front, she maneuvered them until he had his back against the bar and they were both fully facing the interior of the club.  Wesley wrapped one arm around her waist and leaned down to lightly kiss the delicate skin of her neck.  She turned her head towards him and he obligingly dipped his head so she could whisper in his ear.

"See those twins sitting in that guy's lap in the corner?"  When Wes nodded, she continued, "Yeah, well, so does the target.  He's up in the balcony and he's had his eyes on them all night.  I'm guessing when they leave, so will he—I think he's planning on a double-mint dinner.  Once he's in the open I'll take him out."

"What do you need me to do?" he asked.

She ran one of her deceptively small hands lightly over the strong arm he had wrapped around her waist and wiggled against him until she could feel him pressing into the small of her back.  At the sound of his sharp intake of breath, she allowed herself a small smile.

"This will be an easy target.  I want you nice and healthy for later, so why don't you handle the getaway?" she said.  

It sounded like a suggestion, but Wesley knew it wasn't.  When the Slayer laid out a plan, it wasn't open for negotiation.  He'd learned that the hard way a long time ago when he'd defied her order to leave her alone with a target.  When he'd shown up, ready to help, she'd taken one look at him, shook her head impatiently, and knocked him out cold with a hard right hook to the temple.  When he woke up the target was long dead and she had icily informed him that if he ever pulled a stunt like that again he'd have a freshly opened neck wound.  He didn't believe she'd actually do it, at least not mostly, but he toed the line with her nonetheless.  His acquiescence didn't prevent him from feeling supremely irritated at being left out of the action, however.  

At that moment the man from across the room stood and, with one twin on each arm, made his way toward the front door.  

Slayer stood up straight, her body tensing in anticipation.  "Bring the car to the alley across the street.  Give me 10."  Then she pulled away from his embrace and subtlety followed the target out the back door of the club.  

The alley that ran behind the club was dark, with fetid air and sticky pavement, just like every other alley in L.A. that Slayer had become intimately familiar with over the past year and a half.  Oddly enough, despite their repulsive qualities, she felt at home in the alleys.  It was where demons, vampires, and sometimes, evil humans came to die at the hands of the Slayer.  It was where Death stalked and then annihilated her prey.

Slayer had come to think of herself as Death.  Oh, not in an egoistic, Grim Reaper kind of way, but it was her job.  More than that, it was her destiny.  Her gift _was _death after all.  Buffy had stupidly thought that it was her own death that would be a gift to the world, but Slayer knew that it was the death that she could dole out to others that was the real offering to mankind.  What did it really matter that she did it on the orders of a government agency, or that she got paid extremely well for it?  It was still her gift and she was a generous benefactor.  

_Skills to pay the bills, sayeth the Beastie Boys.  _

She stood quietly in the alley, giving her eyes a second to adjust in the dark.  She could see the target slinking down the wall towards the front of the club.  It had shed the glamour that made it appear human and shifted back to its natural demon form.  Slayer could make out the large, muscular trunks that made up its legs as well as its broad, razored back.  She followed in quick pursuit, her movements fluid and silent.  It was startled when she tapped it on its scaly shoulder, and it spun toward her with a loud roar of fury at being interrupted in its dinner hunt.  It stopped short at the sight of the petite blonde woman in black leather and lace standing in a loose fighting stance before it.

"Slayer," he growled, as he flexed his back like a hissing cat, the razors spreading into a deadly arc.

She smiled grimly.  "Is there some flyer with my picture on it that gets handed out at Demons 'R Us?  Cause I think I would have remembered meeting a sharp-dressed guy like you," she said.

He simply smiled back at her, and she couldn't help but notice that his teeth matched the razors arching out of his back.  Damn.  He hadn't looked too bad in the dossier she'd been given, but obviously they'd left out a few details.  Of course any other asset would have taken him out with a gun from a distance, but that wasn't the way the Slayer worked.  Usually she wanted-- no. . . . needed-- the sweat and pain and adrenaline of hand-to-hand combat.  There were only two things that made her feel alive and killing was one of them.  She had only used a gun once, on a human target.  That time she hadn't wanted to touch her prey—had only wanted to complete her assignment as quickly as possible.

Slayer advanced on her prey and let her supernatural senses take over.  She wasn't afraid, was never afraid—it would seem she couldn't stay dead anyway.  Tuning out the faint noise that was emanating from the club and the sound of laughing drunk humans stumbling over themselves just ahead on the lighted street, Slayer pivoted on one foot and struck the target in the face with the steel re-enforced heel of her boot. The roundhouse kick was seamless, flowing, and nearly too fast for the naked eye to detect and the demon staggered back into the wall, the razors on his back making a blunt screeching noise as they connected with the brick of the club's outer wall.  Before it could move forward in counter-attack, she began to hit it with a series of right and left jabs, using its dense face as a punching bag.  With a roar of rage, the demon opened its mouth full of razor teeth and snapped at her hand.  Slayer was just able to redirect her blow to hit its chest instead of its snapping face, but the change in motion provided just enough weakness in her attack for the target to retaliate.  It's large, meaty fist hit her squarely in the chest, and she could feel her breastbone crack.  She landed heavily on the pavement, but had flipped herself back onto her feet before the demon had time to take advantage of her position.

As the fight continued, she began to hum inside.  It was times like these that she . . . felt.  The crunch of fist on bone, the spray of blood, the pungent smell of demon and human exertion combined with the endorphin rush of the pain and the adrenaline rush of the fight and she reveled in it.  It seemed that she had repressed this . . . euphoria? . . . for most of her time as Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Now, as Slayer, she didn't reject it any more.  It was what it meant to be living—for her anyway-- and she embraced it with a fervor that she had felt for nothing else since being thrown out of Heaven.      

In less than 5 minutes the target was lying dead at her feet, its thick neck sliced nearly all the way through its dense musculature.  Slayer, breathing heavily from the fight, bent over and pushed up the leg of her leather pants so that she could re-sheath the dagger she'd used to kill the target.   She watched as her bright red blood flowed freely onto the pavement under her before looking at the gaping slice on her forearm with surprise.  She hadn't even felt it happen.

She felt it now.  

Hurrying toward the alley where she knew Wes was waiting, she stepped out into the brightly illuminated street in front of the club.  She kept her wounded arm pressed against her side and ignored the catcalls coming from the crowd of people still waiting to be admitted.  Her strong strides slowed as Wesley pulled up beside her in her silver McLaren SLR, and opening the passenger door, she slid into the soft black leather interior.

"Give me your shirt," she demanded as he sped away.  

He raised on eyebrow at her in questioning disbelief.  "You likely wouldn't have been cut had you accepted my offer of help, and now you want to ruin my shirt?"

She simply glared at him and stuck out one blood-covered hand.  "I'll buy you a new one.  Shirt.  Off.  This is a serious violation of the 'no bleeding in my car' rule."

Wesley maneuvered the car into a nearly empty parking lot and put it in park.  Stretching one hand over his shoulder, he grabbed the back of the neck and pulled the black long-sleeved shirt over his head in one swift motion.  Slayer couldn't help but appreciate the view of his exposed chest.  Over the last year as her sparring and training partner, his physique had . . . improved.  A lot.  

She grabbed the proffered shirt and wrapped it around her shredded arm, tying it tightly over the wound with the sleeves.  Sitting back in the seat, she stared out the window as Wes put the car back in gear and sped off toward her loft.  Anyone looking at her might assume that she was deep in thought, but they'd be wrong.

Wes settled into driving and waited for her to come out of her post-killing trance.  For the past year they had been fighting together nightly, mostly doing routine sweeps of vamp and demon hot-spots in the city.  Less often, he had accompanied her on her agency assignments.  He had quickly noticed that after taking out the target she was quiet and withdrawn.  For some reason, those killings affected her in a way that normal slaying did not, but it wasn't a topic that she cared to discuss, so he pretended not to notice.  Both of them were very good at pretending not to notice things that the other didn't want to talk about.  She pretended that she hadn't noticed he had kept a woman locked in his closet for a while several months ago, or that he got a haunted look in his eyes every time they were out early enough to see a father laughing and playing with his son.  He, in turn, pretended not to notice that she got just a little jumpy when she was in enclosed spaces or that despite her refusal to talk about anything Sunnydale related, she sent a generous check to her sister each month—anonymously of course.   

As they neared her loft, Slayer blinked several times in rapid succession and looked at the illuminated clock on the dash.  The agency would be eagerly awaiting news on her most recent assignment.

_Time to call Harris—the prick._

Picking up the cell phone that was cradled in its car port, she quickly dialed the number that Harris had given her after her agency graduation, just before he'd had her tranqued up and dumped in a random abandoned building on the outskirts of the city.  She'd woken up with a cell phone, a headache, and nothing else.  Luckily he hadn't lied about the off-shore bank account and if she'd still been the girl she had once been, if she'd still been Buffy, she would have squealed in excitement when she called to check the balance.  Now, the fact that she had more money to her name than she could ever hope to use did little more than give her a vague sense of security.  She bought what she wanted, when she wanted it, but the possessions gave her little joy. 

_Joy?  I can't even remember what that feels like._

No, Slayer didn't feel joy anymore, or any really extreme positive emotions outside of those she felt in the middle of a fight.  The trade-off was that she also didn't really feel the more negative emotions either.  She wasn't ever sad, she wasn't depressed, she didn't get anxious or worried—she just existed.  

The phone rang three times before Harris answered.  "Yes?"

"The target's toast.  No comps," Slayer answered.  She smiled a tiny smile when she heard his sigh of annoyance.  She liked to irritate Harris by refusing to follow DPE communication guidelines. 

"I assume you meant to say that there were no complications?" he asked.

"Bingo," she replied.

"I need your code name for verification purposes," he persisted, ignoring her continued attempts to get under his skin.  

This time it was Slayer who was irritated.  She hated this code name shit—she was The Slayer and that should be enough.  

"Artemis," she gritted out, and then snapped the phone closed without waiting for him to answer.  

******************

Slayer winced as Wesley finished stitching up the cut on her arm.  After unwrapping her arm and assessing the damage, they could see that the demon had sliced it almost completely to the bone.  Even still, it would be completely healed in a matter of days.

Wes looked up when he felt her wince and gave her a slow, sexy smile.   He nudged her knees apart with his body so that he was standing between her legs as she sat on the stainless steel surface of her dining table.  Extending one hand up to her neck, he lightly trailed his fingers across the skin until they were touching the nape.  The little downy hairs there were standing up from the contact, and he reveled in the feel of her soft skin on one side of his hand and her silky blonde hair on the other.  He began tracing the pattern of black ink that he knew stained the skin under his finger.  A small Celtic cross—protection for a warrior.   

"Diana? Experiencing pain?  I thought you liked the feel of the needle piercing your skin," he murmured.  His exploring hand dipped down to her waist and he caressed her exposed stomach until he reached her navel and the metal bar that ran through it.  Tweaking it gently, he leaned in until his lips were nearly touching hers, his eyes staring languidly into her hazel green depths.  "In fact, if memory serves, you like pain . . . very . . . much."  He punctuated the last two words with increasing pressure on her piercing, twisting the metal bar until it pulled her skin tight.  Her eyes darkened with a tinge of lust, and Wesley quickly dropped to his knees in front of her, let go of the metal, and laved the reddened skin of her navel with his tongue, his hands wrapped around her leather-clad hips.  He was rewarded with the sound of her sharp intake of breath, her hands wrapping in his hair to pull him closer.   He used his teeth to pull out on the piercing and then continued the soothing ministrations with his lips and tongue.  

She felt the stirrings of arousal as he teased her with his mouth, and she surrendered to the sensations.  Fighting made her feel like she might actually be alive . . .  fucking made her believe it, if only for a few precious moments. 

Slayer felt one of his hands move to undo her pants and she leaned back and lifted her hips to help him slide them down and off.  They made a black puddle on the concrete floor.  His mouth returned to her stomach and he teased the tight expanse of skin that spanned the distance between her belly button and the top of her panties, but he was careful to avoid the other inked design that adorned the alabaster skin of her pelvis.  Wes never touched that one—even if she hadn't forbidden it, he had no desire.

Then they were all skin and hands and mouths and heat.  

 "Diana," Wes moaned, and held her tightly as he found his release, the pleasure undeniably intense.  

Somewhere deep inside, Slayer twinged at the name, but she no longer let him see her annoyance.  He always cried out the name that he insisted on calling her when he was in the throes of his orgasm.  She, in turn, never made a sound.   There were other things that were always the same—he always carefully avoided her lips, her scar, and the tattoo that marked her pelvis with his mouth, and seconds after they were finished the feelings of emptiness and detachment returned.  

Still, she was glad to have Wes in her life, as her partner . . . of sorts.  It was better with him than it had been with the others and she was able to forget and feel for a few precious minutes.   The ones that had come before Wes had either been too afraid to hurt her to be able to deliver the right amount of stimulation or they had been too into trying to humiliate her before she made it painfully clear to them that she wasn't into that.  Wes, on the other hand, wasn't fooled by the delicate façade of her petite body, and he wasn't interested in her humiliation.  With him she could feel almost human again.  

_When he fucks me, I know that I'm real.  _

Wes felt her unwrap her legs from where they rested around his waist.  He watched, his breath still irregular, his heart still pounding, as she pulled herself up and slid off the table.  Halfway across the room, she slipped off her bra and left it carelessly on the floor as she made her way to the bathroom that was situated near the middle of the large loft-space that she called home.  It divided the space nearly in half.   The side with the toilet and sinks faced the kitchen and dining area and was enclosed with solid walls, but the large free-standing shower and the tub were encased on one side with clear glass blocks.  She had once told him that the first thing she'd done when she moved in was to have those walls torn out and replaced with glass.  She hadn't had to tell him that it was because she felt the walls closing in on her everytime she took a shower.  Wesley heard her turn on the faucets, and he knew that if he walked over to the opposite side of the loft, the side that held her bed and living area, that he would be able to see the outline of her naked body under the cascading water.  It was tempting, but he knew that she expected for him to be gone when she reemerged, and he had business to attend to anyway.  He pulled himself together and, grabbing his bloodied and ruined shirt, quietly left, locking the deadbolt on the steal door behind him with his key.

********


	4. Chemicals Between Us

Email: marenfic@yahoo.com

  
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*************

When Slayer padded out of the bathroom wrapped in a white towel, he was gone.  Wesley never stayed, hadn't spent the night once since he had tracked her down a year earlier.

~~~~~~_1 year earlier~~~~~_

She had been sitting in a dark corner of one of her regular after-slayage goth clubs, doing a line of coke and trying to lose herself in the pounding music when he had slipped into the booth beside her.  

"I'm so glad you're hanging up your stalker hat.  It was getting harder and harder to pretend that I didn't see you," she said.  

Then she had looked at him, up close, for the first time in over 3 years.  What she saw surprised her.  This man was not the prissy, ineffectual Watcher who had tried to make her toe the Council's line.  In fact, he didn't even stick out too much in this scene, with his all black clothing, his tousled hair, and his three day growth.  She raised her eyebrows in appreciation and nodded toward the line that was still on the table.

"Want?" she offered.

"No thank you.  I seem to recall a time in the not overly distant past when you weren't so eager to have your body polluted with chemicals, but I suppose death might change things," he'd answered.  His voice was deceptively smooth and calm, and she had made an internal note to be ready for whatever had made him finally approach her.  

She had laughed, and it sounded more than a little hollow.  "Don't worry Wes, I haven't been promoted to head crack-whore yet."

He had been skeptical at first, but soon he found out that even though she drank and did the occasional line, she never lost control.  She wasn't a burn-out and she wasn't a drunk.  It was almost as though she weren't capable of excess anymore. 

"So are you going to clue me in on why you've been following me around, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?  If you're here on behalf of your boss, you can get up and walk right on out" she had said.  Her voice was chipper and sweat, belying the words that she spoke.  

_If he thinks I'm going to see . . . well, I won't.  I can't._

It was his turn to bark out a bitter laugh.  "I don't have a boss, but that's a tale for another day—perhaps I'll share it when you tell me how a dead slayer is walking, talking, and breathing," he had replied.

Slayer waited for him to continue, staring at him mutely with something close to disinterest in her eyes.

"You killed a . . . friend . . . of mine.  Several weeks ago.  A woman, tall, brown hair, evil to the core.  Ring any bells?"

The haunted look that briefly flashed through her eyes was all the answer he needed.

"I had no idea it was you, Buffy. . ." he started to continue, before her sharp retort interrupted him.

"Don't call me that," she said, her voice low and laced with warning of imminent danger to his person.

He gave her a quizzical look.  "Fine then.  If you don't wish to be called by your name, what do you prefer?"

"Slayer."

He stared at her for several long moments.  "As I was saying," he finally continued, "at first I didn't realize it was you.  The night you killed Lilah, I saw you leave her building on my way up.  I knew you looked familiar, but of course I never presumed that it could be you, as I knew you were dead of course.  When I found her. . ." his voice had trailed off for a moment.  When it resumed, it was silky smooth and threatening in its calm, cool delivery.  "When I found her lying there in a pool of her own blood, I began . . . interviewing . . . my sources.  Even though I was quite . . . _persuasive_, you were a difficult woman to find."

"Silly Wes.  You never would have found me if I didn't _want_ to be found," she drawled, tilting her head flirtatiously to one side and giving him a seductive half-smile.  Only her eyes betrayed the hard calculating look of a warrior engaged in battle.  

His eyes had roamed appraisingly over her body in response, had darkened with a hint of lust as he lingered on the swell of her breasts over the black bustier, had raked slowly down to the exposed flesh of her stomach before briefly settling on the firm thighs that were encased in red leather.  When he raised his eyes to meet hers again, she was still smiling at him.  This was not the girl he had known in Sunnydale.  No, this was a woman,  and she gave a little laugh as she tossed back her head, her long mane of dirty-blonde hair falling in sexy, tousled layers onto her shoulders and back, the tips in front just brushing the luminescent swell of her breasts.

"So, Wes, what is it that _you_ want?" she questioned.

It was then that he had moved towards her, his eyes burning into hers, and she had been only slightly surprised to feel the cool feel of the tip of a blade pressed firmly against the skin of her abdomen.  

"What I _want _is the answer to a single question.  Precisely when did you begin murdering humans?" he had bitten out, the hand holding the knife steady, his face a hard inscrutable mask.

Slayer had reacted to the threat by running to meet it.  She'd pressed herself slowly toward him so that the point of the knife punctured the skin of her belly, pressed forward until she could feel the blood welling up around the blade and run in a trickle down her skin.  Her expression never changed—there was no acknowledgement of the imminent threat, or the pain.  She stopped moving when the tip was buried just inside her and her lips were mere inches from his.

"Your fuck buddy was my first," she purred.  She had watched his eyes flicker in anger and before he had the chance to plunge the knife he was brandishing into the depths of her gut, she had one strong hand wrapped around his scarred throat, applying unrelenting pressure.  The slight relaxation of his hand on the knife told her that he knew she could crush his windpipe in an instant.  They had stayed that way, frozen in an impasse, for several long moments.  It was Slayer who finally broke the silence.

"I'm thinking that maybe the question you should have asked is why."  She had dropped her voice in a faux whisper.  "Technically I'm not allowed to tell you, but I've never really cared too much about technicalities.  Show me a rule, I'll break it—it's like a motto."

He had given her a calculating look before pulling back the blade.  She had dropped her hand from his neck and they sat back in the booth, guarded and distrustful.  The next hour had been spent with Slayer telling him about her assignment to eliminate a female lawyer who had made a deal to open a dimensional portal for a demon warlord.  Lilah's file had been thick, but the last deal was the one that signed her death warrant.  Her ambition, her greed, and her willingness to do anything that might give her more power—including damning their world to a long, drawn-out war with highly trained demons intent upon conquering this dimension—had all combined to make her Slayer's first, and thus far, only human target.  The Agency had wanted her dead, and Slayer had fulfilled her assignment.  She didn't tell him how she had bent over and thrown up as soon as she had reached the relative safety of the alley where she had left her car parked.  

Wes had listened quietly, occasionally breaking in to ask a question, but mostly just trying to digest the information.  He had known that Lilah worked for the bad guys but he hadn't ever fully considered the extent of her personal culpability.  Still, her death had affected him.  His anger at Slayer had dissipated as she talked, but his grief over Lilah did not.  They parted when the club closed for the night, both still alive, neither feeling the need to eliminate the other any longer.

The next night Wesley wordlessly joined her on patrol.  She'd let him.  After, they had gone to his apartment to talk.  Slayer told him about her banishment from Heaven.  He had shared his own fall from grace with her in cold, detached tones.  Only his eyes gave his true feelings away.  For a moment, before she regained control of herself, she was certain her own eyes must have betrayed her own surprising surge of emotion at hearing that Angel had had a son with Darla.  Slayer felt as though she had been sucker punched in the gut at the news, and it had taken her a moment to push it back.  She struggled to regain her usual sense of emotional neutrality, and when it hadn't come right away, she'd settled on turning the anguish into anger.  She had verbally attacked him for his betrayal of Angel.  He had responded with his own healthy dose of anger at her over killing Lilah.  In the end, their verbal assaults turned to a physical assault, and then they had been naked and writhing together on the floor amid the ruins of broken pottery that hadn't weathered the fight.  

In the end, Wes refused to continue calling her Slayer.  He had tried so hard to divorce himself from his history with the Watcher's Council and he couldn't remind himself of their personal history every time he had to call out her name.  He insisted that if she didn't want to be called Buffy, she pick a different human name.  She had simply glared and refused.  It had been two weeks into their renewed acquaintance when he had overheard her part of an assignment call from Harris, his eyes lighting up with sardonic amusement when she had begrudgingly given her code name for verification.  When she hung up the phone, he had spoken.  

"Artemis, Greek Goddess of the Hunt," he had murmured, thoughtfully.  "Quite appropriate.  I think I know what I'll call you then—Diana, her Roman goddess counterpart."  When she gave him a warning glare, he had simply smiled.  After several days of his persistence, she reluctantly gave in.  As long as he didn't call her Buffy. . .  

So now he called out "Diana" when he was inside her, and she called out nothing. 

It wasn't that she didn't care for him—she did.  They respected each other and they trusted each other.  They felt connected—the outcasts, the unwanted, and the broken.  They did not feel love.  They weren't even technically exclusive, although neither had ever taken another lover. 

No, she said nothing because the one time she had moaned out a name during sex with Wesley it hadn't been his and neither of them had wanted to be reminded of the one whose name it was.  He, because of his betrayal of the one whose name was spoken.  She, because that name belonged to Buffy, not Slayer.  

~~~~~~~~~~~

Slayer pulled herself from her thoughts and finished drying off her body.  Throwing on a pair of yoga pants and a tank, she looked longingly at her big comfy bed with its fluffy white down comforter and soothingly cool cotton sheets, before turning toward the padded bench that sat in front of one floor to ceiling window.  From that vantage point, she had a relatively unobstructed view of the city skyline.  Sometimes, when she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep, she sat there for hours and stared out at the city that had taken in her and made her one of its own after Heaven had dumped her back to earth.  

Tonight was going to be one of those nights.  She pulled her knees up and rested her head on them as she stared out into the night sky.

_Lights pretty.  Smog bad.  _

************************************************************************


	5. The Assignment

--Two Weeks Later--

The incessant ringing of the cell phone sitting on the night stand next to her ear pulled Slayer out of her restless slumber. She cracked one eye open to see that the clock read 9:00 a.m., groaned, and pulled a pillow over her head. When the phone continued to ring after several minutes, she threw the pillow off and, sitting up, grabbed the phone.

_Fuck! Goddamn Harris—I'm going to kill that little prick._

"What?" she snapped into the phone.

"Good morning," Harris chirped back, overlooking the fact that she had ignored the ringing for a full 5 minutes. He generally hated it when any of his subordinates wasted his time by making him wait, but hers was a special case. Plus, he'd known when he'd called this early that she wouldn't be happy—which is precisely why he did it.

"I just got to sleep 2 hours ago after 3 days of no shut-eye. You do realize that people go crazy when they don't get enough sleep, right? Let me assure you that you are at the top of my "to kill" list when I go off the deep-end," she threatened.

"You have an assignment," he said crisply, ignoring her outburst. "Code name?"

"Fuck you and your code name," she bit back, refusing to give him her ridiculous alias.

Her reply was met with a temporary silence, and she smiled when she heard Harris' harsh breathing on the other end. She was rarely able to piss him off like this. When he spoke, there was a hard edge to his voice. "Fine. You'll have to get the details from your pick-up then. Your deadline is two weeks from today."

Slayer flipped the phone shut without saying anything else and threw it hard against the concrete wall, watching dispassionately as the shattered pieces ricocheted across the floor.

* * *

Slayer moved through the dark streets stealthily, keeping to the shadows as much as she could. She was going into this assignment nearly blind—she knew that her target was a vampire and she had an address, but Harris hadn't bothered to give her any more information than that. Slayer knew it was his way of punishing her for her insolence, his way of making her job a little bit more difficult, his way of making her work a little harder. Frankly, she welcomed the challenge, and it wasn't like she could kill the wrong vamp by mistake—they were all marked for death by Slayer. 

As she neared the address from the file, Slayer looked around for the best place to hide and begin her surveillance. She chose a spot in the shadow of a doorway directly across the street from the entrance to the building where the target lived. It was an impressive structure, but a strange choice for a vampire. The old hotel didn't appear to be completely abandoned, as evidenced by the light emanating from the lobby and there were way too many windows that faced in every direction to be safe for a vampire. In Slayer's experience, vampires usually nested in old abandoned buildings with a minimum of sun exposure.

Her attention was drawn away from the building by the approach of a man and a woman. They were walking with their arms entangled, he looking down at her with a beautiful smile, she looking up at him with wide eyes and a giggle. Slayer watched with interest as they turned into the entrance to the hotel. It was obvious from their behavior that they were a couple and that they lived there. What wasn't completely obvious was whether either were her target. They didn't exactly act like vampires, but Slayer didn't know too many humans who willingly lived with their predators. Unfortunately, she couldn't sense whether they were human or demon, particularly not from this distance.

_It figures I got the nightmares but not the cool spidey senses out of this deal._

Leaning back against the door frame, she settled in to wait. It was early in the night and if they were demons, they would be back out for a hunt at some point. Slayer sighed and rubbed one hand gently over her face, massaging her temples. She hadn't been sleeping well for a while, even for an insomniac. Most of the time she hadn't been able to fall asleep at all, but when she did, the nightmares brought her out of it. Worry wrinkled her brow as she thought about those dreams. She knew that they had been terrifying and she felt like they may have been prophetic, but she could never remember them when she woke up. It was as though her inability to feel strong emotions was tied to her consciousness, as though her ability to act as the slayer most efficiently was tied to something that she couldn't experience any longer. The nightmares woke her up, heart racing and sweat dripping from her body, but when she tried to remember, the terror faded away and the serenity returned without the memories of that which woke her.

Now, standing here in this shadowed doorway, Slayer felt as though the lack of sleep must be catching up with her. She felt . . . off. Her muscles were tight with tension and her nerve endings were humming as though she were high. She felt almost . . . anxious.

_Yep, lack of sleep makes me of the crazy._

Slayer dropped her hand and shook her head in frustration. Now was not the time for ruminating about sleep, or nightmares, or feelings that she shouldn't be having. She forced her mind to go blank and her body to go still as she had been trained.

Several hours later, she saw the shadows over the entry to the hotel shift, and she heard the sound of voices floating out over the night air, reaching her ears in sharp staccato bursts of banter and laughter. She winced—those were not sounds that were familiar to her unless they were surrounded with irony or bitterness.

The man from before emerged first from the foliage that surrounded the entry and hid it from her eyes, and he looked around warily before stepping fully out onto the sidewalk. Slayer recognized the fighter in him at that moment, and she studied him more carefully than before. He was tall and well-built, his shoulders broad under his long-sleeved t-shirt, his skin a beautiful chocolate hue. If he was the target, he would put up a good fight, and Slayer smiled in anticipation.

Then the woman walked out, her head turned to look back over her shoulder, laughing. She was tiny, almost frail-looking, and Slayer dismissed her as a threat. No, the real threat with her would be the other one, the man who put a possessive hand around her waist and kissed the top of her head.

"I don't think he's coming, Charles," the woman said, looking up at the man who held her, and then back into the shadows of the entrance.

"Oh yeah he is," the man replied, before yelling toward the entrance. "Believe me man, nobody wants to hear you butcher Manilow, but you've been acting weird all night and Lorne might be able to give us the 411."

Slayer couldn't hear the muttered response, but the sound of the voice made her body tense even more. Her stomach clenched and she watched as the source of the voice materialized into the light provided by the street lamps.

Time seemed to slow down to a syrupy trickle as she watched him step out onto the sidewalk, his long black duster fanning out behind him. The nerve endings that had been tingling all night went into overdrive and she had to fight to keep from doubling over from the almost cramping sensation in her stomach.

When he stopped in mid-step and spun until he was facing her hiding spot, a look of confused recognition playing over his face, it took her a second to realize that a low, wounded moan was coming unbidden from deep within her and she froze, cutting off the sound and willing herself not to move a muscle.

He took a step into the street as the man and woman looked at him in confusion.

"Buffy?" he questioned, his eyes searching the shadows for the woman hidden inside.

Anguished panic rose up inside her and she felt like she might lose what little dinner she had eaten on the sidewalk in front of her.

Then he started moving quickly across the street, calling out the name that wasn't hers.

"Buffy!"

For the first time in over 2 years, Slayer turned and ran, a single word pounding through her head with each stride.

_No no no no no no no no no no no. . . _

* * *

Wesley rapped sharply on the door, and when she didn't answer, pulled out his key and let himself into her loft. He hadn't seen her in two days—he'd been away, chasing yet another lead on his years-long quest to find a way into Quar-Toth. He knew, intellectually, that it was too late to save Angel's son, but he couldn't stop searching for information anyway. In his life, he'd seen a few miracles and there was a part of him that hoped they'd be graced with another one. He didn't share this hope with anyone—it was private and fragile and fleeting. When he disappeared for a few days at a time, Diana never asked questions. It was one of the things he appreciated about their relationship. 

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a drink. This most recent trip had been worthless, as always. The lead had led to yet another dead-end and Wesley was getting tired of beating demons within an inch of their lives for information that never led to the elusive Hell dimension. He downed the drink quickly and as he moved to set the empty highball glass on the table, he noticed the assignment envelope.

Reaching over, he placed his fingertips on the envelope and slid it toward him. _This must be where she is, then,_ he thought idly as he opened the large envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. A frown started with a wrinkle in his brow and quickly spread across his face as he pulled the sheet forward. When he read the address, he froze, caught in a moment of sheer panic and an almost blinding anger.

_Buffy wouldn't kill Angel, _he thought, and he let the feeling of relief wash over him. It took him a few seconds to form his next thought, and when he did, he dropped the paper and rushed toward the door. _But Slayer might. . ._

He was running down the stairs, not wanting to waste a single second on waiting for the lift, when he literally ran into her. As their bodies collided, he reached out his hand and roughly grabbed her upper arm to steady her. She was breathing heavily and her long hair was tangled around her in a wind-whipped mess, as though she had been running for hours.

"Did you do it?" he asked desperately, his eyes searching her face for any sign of the truth but only seeing a strange, vacant, slightly panicked look on her face. It terrified him. He had never, in the time since he had become reacquainted with her, known her to look so . . . affected . . . so . . . out of control.

At the sound of her harsh, humorless laugh, he felt his own control snap. Every dim, barren hope that he could gain Angel's forgiveness, his trust, was dashed in the shrill sound emanating from her throat and the wild look in her eyes. All of his fury, all of his impotent aspirations of absolution, rose to the surface and he snarled as ferociously as a man could and tightened his grip on her arm.

"What did you do?" he clipped out, and it wasn't a question as much as an accusation. Turning swiftly, he pulled her behind him as he made his way back up the steps to the privacy of her loft. Wesley's rage didn't allow for him to consider that she wasn't fighting him, that she was allowing him to drag her behind him as though she weren't the most powerful creature he had ever encountered.

Slayer barely felt Wes's fingers biting into her upper arm as he led her through her door. Her body felt almost completely numb, as though the nerve endings had shut down to give her mind the energy it needed to _feel._ And feel she did. The unfamiliar emotions were hitting her, wave after wave of panic and gut-wrenching anguish and grief and . . . . love?

_Nonononononononono._

The single word continued to run through her mind as it had from the moment she'd heard him call out _that name. _Now Wesley had her by the arm and she couldn't think and her senses were jumbled and she was _feeling_ and it was wrong. She had to stop this, she had to divert her body's resources away from her mind, back to her nerve endings.

For the first time in two years, Slayer was going to fight and she was going to fuck and she was going to do both so that she could _stop_ feeling.

The sound of Wesley's voice pulled her out of her inner turmoil and she looked at him to see his eyes narrowed in something close to frenzied hate, his mouth pulled in a grim line when he wasn't speaking.

"What kind of monster have you become, that you would do such a thing?" he hissed, grabbing her other upper arm and shaking her limp, numb body until her teeth chattered.

She forced a smile onto her lips and knocked his hands off her with one swift movement.

"Yeah, like stealing his kid was the act of a saint," she returned, the only hint of her state of mind the slight hitch in her breath.

Wesley visibly flinched at her words, and before he considered what he was doing, he curled his hand into a fist and then it was connecting with her jaw.

Slayer saw his fist flying at her face, had plenty of time with her preternatural reflexes to avoid it, but she let it come, welcomed it as it connected, nearly laughed in triumph when it sent the pain shooting through her face into her neck as her head snapped back.

He paused, breathing heavily, and staring down at his fist while he fought for control. He hadn't lashed out at her in anger since the night they fought over Lilah and although his technique had improved, he couldn't hope to last 2 minutes with her and he knew it. But he didn't really care.

When she hit him back, Wes could tell she was pulling her punch, as evidenced by the fact that his body only flew back enough to land on the coffee table and not all the way into the far wall. He felt pain radiating from where her fist had connected with his chest, and from where his back was lacerated by the broken pieces of the table that lay shattered beneath him. And then she was on top of him, ripping his shirt open, her mouth biting and sucking on his neck and chest, tongue tasting and teasing his nipples.

Wes wanted to hate her, wanted to push her away and leave and never see her murdering self again, but when it came down to it, this is what they were about—what they had always been about and he couldn't stop himself from wanting her now. Pain and pleasure, hate and affection—they were feelings that were braided together for them, inseparable. So instead of pushing her away, he groaned and pulled her shirt over her head before cruelly crushing one of her sinfully perfect breasts in the same hand that had been clenched in a fist just moments before.

* * *

Angel stood completely still and concentrated on finding her smell again. He didn't know if it was because he was finding it difficult to clear his mind to track her, or if it was because she was purposely trying to cover her trail, but he kept losing her. He wanted to roar in frustration and fear . . . frustration that he couldn't keep her scent, that time was ticking by each time he had to stop and search . . . fear that he wouldn't find her, wouldn't be able to verify with his eyes, and his nose, and his touch that she was alive. 

He'd felt her presence in every cell of his dead body before he'd seen her standing there in the shadows, but it had taken that sighting for him to recognize what his soul had been trying to tell him all night. It was impossible that she was alive . . . she had died and been buried for well over 2 years now and he had dealt and learned to exist in a world without her. But he had found out long ago that the impossible was always possible and that the dead didn't always stay dead. Still, he hadn't been sure, hadn't trusted his senses until he called out her name and she had turned and run.

That's when he had seen her briefly in the light and he knew for certain it was her. If he lived another thousand years he would never forget the exact shape of her body or the texture of her hair, even from a distance. Her smell was a little different, but still the same—she didn't use the same scented soaps and shampoos that she used to, but underneath the new, austere scents of her body products her signature, personal scent was the same. He knew it was her, and he knew that he had to find her before she faded into the night and was lost to him once again.

Angel forced himself to clear his mind and tap into the hunter inside him. He allowed the demon to come closer to the surface, let it sniff the air for any trace of its mate, and his eyes glowed golden as he finally caught her scent. He moved swiftly now, surely, and this time he didn't lose her scent. It led him to an old warehouse, and as he stepped inside, he realized it had been converted to living space. Angel ignored the elevator as he tracked her up the stairs, pausing as he caught traces of another scent that was familiar. Pushing it away, he concentrated on her, and soon he was in the shadows outside her door—a door that was cracked open, letting a sliver of light splash across the stairwell, letting the sounds from inside float out into the space in which he stood.

He raised his hand to knock. It dropped, just as quickly and as if by its own volition, when he heard the noises that were coming from inside and realized who the other scent belonged to.

* * *

**Two Missing NC-17 scene that are important to the story deleted for FFnet. For unfiltered version of story, visit it at my website www. consummatelove. com**


	6. Chasing Answers

He could feel the bass pounding in waves inside his body, each beat accentuated by the rumble and ripple of dead tissue, and he realized why these kinds of clubs were popular with the undead crowd. If he closed his eyes and pretended, he just might be able to believe that the vibrating movements deep inside his chest cavity were from the beating of his own heart. The fantasy was tempting, but he couldn't forget why he was here.

Buffy.

Angel quickly scanned the interior, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the crowded club where the sea of undulating bodies moved in riotous synchronicity-- flesh pressed up against flesh, groin grinding against groin, hands exploring bodies that were slick with perspiration and want. The pulsating white light that illuminated the room in waves and bursts of shocking brilliance did more to obscure his vampiric vision than enhance it and he didn't see her.

It didn't matter—not yet anyway. He could feel her.

The knowledge of her presence was thrumming along his spine, pulsing just a little faster than the beat of the music. It was intoxicating and he wondered at the seductive fingers of unreality that tinged the edges of this night. For a few seconds he considered the possibility that this wasn't real, that he hadn't actually found her after a week of searching every dive and alt club in the city, after a week of giving up and waiting for her at her apartment until the dawn was coming and he'd had to admit she wasn't.

The night after he'd found out she was alive, the night after she'd closed her door in his face with a sneer on her beautiful mouth and a blank look in her usually-expressive eyes, he'd gone to see Wes. He had meant to find out everything he could about Buffy's resurrection and then do what he should have done over a year ago—kill him.

When the door to Wesley's apartment opened, Angel was confronted by a man who bore little resemblance to the person he had known. Gone was the man who looked like he was born with glasses perched on his nose and a book in his hand. In his place was a being who exuded a level of dangerous threat of which Angel hadn't thought Wesley capable.

* * *

"_I'd ask what you want, but somehow I can't quite bring myself to care," Wesley said as he opened his door to see the glowering vampire filling the frame. Angel tried to push forward into the apartment, but was stopped by the invisible barrier._

"_Let me in," he growled, his eyes burning into the man who had betrayed him on even more levels than he had thought just two days ago. Angel stood in rigid stillness, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He radiated a powerful violence that made it seem like he was vibrating with an unseen energy._

_Wesley made a short, barking sound that grated harshly in the stagnant air and only vaguely resembled the laugh it was meant to be. "Why, so you can finish what you started the last time I saw you? I don't believe I'm interested."_

"_Actually, first you're going to tell me what the hell you've been doing with Buffy, and then I'm going to finish what I started—whether you're interested or not," Angel returned, glaring dangerously at the other man. He noticed the guilt that quickly flashed through Wesley's eyes at the mention of Buffy before it was gone and replaced by cool indifference. They stood on opposite sides of the doorway, eyes clashing in silent battle, for several long minutes. Then Wesley turned and disappeared from his line of sight, and Angel struggled against his urge to throw himself against the barrier, despite the knowledge that it would get him nowhere._

_When Wesley returned to the open door, he carried a crossbow in one hand and a drink in the other. He took a slow drink of the amber-colored liquid in the glass as he contemplated his former friend. Angel waited, silent and glowering, and watched as Wesley took another drink, shrugged, and sat the glass down on an end table. He swung the crossbow up with a fluid, practiced motion and pointed it at Angel's chest._

"_Old friends are always welcome to come in," he said._

_Angel's jaw clenched in renewed anger at the words, but he stepped inside the apartment with the grace and speed of the predator he was, not stopping until the tip of the arrow in the crossbow was just inches from his heart. His nose flared slightly at the smell of alcohol that spilled off Wes in waves. He didn't know how he'd missed the scent of stale liquor before, but it was obvious that the man had spent the hours since he left Buffy's drinking._

"_You're drunk," Angel said with more than a touch of derision._

"_Not so drunk I'll miss," Wes replied, and Angel could see the truth of that statement in the hard glare in Wesley's eyes and the steady hand that held the crossbow. _

_Backing off, Angel turned to shut the door behind him and then moved to the living room window that overlooked the street. His eyes roamed over the room as he looked for signs of Buffy. He didn't see anything that looked like it might belong to her, and gauging from the trace amounts of her scent present in the apartment, he didn't think she had spent much time here. Sighing, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to will the jealous tension out of the way. Now was not the time for jealousy—he had to find out how the hell she was alive before he could give in to his urges to seriously hurt the man who used to be one of his closest friends._

"_So I guess you know the Slayer's alive." Wes's statement was quickly followed by the sound of tinkling ice and a long swallow. Angel slowly turned around to find him sitting in a chair by the door, the crossbow lowered but not forgotten._

"_What. . ." Angel stopped and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. His mind had been churning violently over the past day as he waited until night fall came again, running over the potential explanations for Buffy's return to life and trying to deal with the fact that she hadn't told him, that no one in Sunnydale had called to tell him. Part of him dreaded learning the answers to these questions, but he knew he must ask anyway. Out of habit, he took a long deep breath before continuing. "How? Was it Wolfram and Hart?" _

_At the mention of the law firm, Wesley raised his glass and emptied its contents, his eyes hard and distant. Focusing once again on Angel, he shrugged. "I don't know if they had anything to do with her resurrection, but I don't think so." He picked up the bottle of whiskey on the end table and refilled his glass. "She died. She came back. I'm not sure what else you'd like for me to say, and besides, it's not my story to tell," he finished._

_Angel scowled at the lack of information. "When did this happen? When did you find her?" he continued, pushing to get something out of Wes that might help explain this miracle._

"_She was resurrected about 2 years ago . . . we became . . . reacquainted almost a year ago," Wesley intoned._

_The words hit Angel like a hard punch to the gut. He fought against the urge to take a deep, gasping breath in response. He couldn't stop himself from slowly shaking his head, trying to make sense of all the warring thoughts and protestations pounding inside it. In the day he'd known she was alive, he never once imagined that it had happened so long ago. Struggling to hide the combined pain and shock, he addressed the other man again. _

"_You've known Buffy was alive for a year and you didn't tell me?" he said, the anger in his voice still present, but softened by a confusion he couldn't manage to completely hide.  
_

_Wesley shot him an incredulous look. "We haven't exactly been on speaking terms."_

_The gut-wrenching pain turned into pure anger as Angel was reminded of why Wes wasn't in his life anymore. The memories of hearing Buffy's cries of pleasure and pain with Wesley the night before surged into his mind, despite his desperate attempts to suppress them. The thread of control he had managed to maintain thus far snapped, and he lashed out._

"_I was there last night. I know what you did to Buffy and I will kill you for it. What's the matter, Wes? Kidnapping children isn't enough for you—you have to beat up women to get your jollies now too? You disgust me," Angel seethed, his eyes flashing gold as he advanced on Wesley. He heard the man's heartbeat quicken, but there was no outward sign that Wes was frightened. Instead of fear, it was guilt and self-loathing that flashed across his face and settled his mouth into a grim line. _

_Wesley pointed the crossbow at Angel with a speed that belied his drunken state. "The Slayer is not the same woman you used to know, Angel. You'd do well to remember that. As for last night, well, I'm equally disgusted with myself but in my defense, I didn't do anything she didn't want," he said in a soft, measured rhythm. _

_A tiny fraction of Angel's rage eased. "Buffy deserves better than that . . . how could you do that to her?" He hated the plaintive note in his tone, but he couldn't help it any more than he could help the urge to kill his former friend. _

_  
Another mirthless laugh erupted from Wesley's lips before they settled in a smirk. "It's not always about holding hands, Angel. I would think that someone with your . . . romantic history. . . would recognize that."_

_Angel didn't struggle against the change as his anger pushed the demon forward. His face morphed and he welcomed the sharp prick of his fangs and the surge of bloodlust that accompanied it. _

"_You're not going to live to touch her again," he warned. _

_Standing up, Wesley pushed the chair he had been sitting in back with his foot and moved to the side, keeping the crossbow trained on the snarling vampire. "No doubt," he drawled, "but it's not going to happen tonight. I do think it's time for you to be leaving, old friend."_

_A quick assessment of the situation told Angel that if he advanced on Wes, he could very well end up a pile of dust before ever getting to see Buffy again. Forcing himself to back up a step, he struggled to regain his human features as he slowly angled toward the door. _

"_Where can I find her?" he asked, his voice rasping with his effort not to yell._

_Wesley kept his eyes trained on Angel, tracking him as he backed toward to door, refusing to give him an opening to attack. He sighed, shaking his head slightly before answering. "You won't find her unless she wants to be found."_

"_That doesn't answer my question," Angel grit out._

_A sigh and quick shake of the head preceded Wesley's answer. "The Slayer spends her nights in any number of garish clubs around her neighborhood. If it's loud and not too trendy, she's likely a regular," he supplied. _

_Reaching the door, Angel turned his back on Wes and opened it, preparing to leave. _

"_Oh, and Angel?" _

_He turned around and glared at Wes. _

"_Don't presume to think I won't revoke your invitation the second you leave. I won't make my murder easy on you."_

_The glare faded from his face and was replaced with a slow, menacing smile that did not touch the hard darkness of his eyes. "I always enjoy a challenge," Angel said. Then he turned and retreated, eager to find Buffy, see her again, feel her and make sure she was real and not a figment of his imagination. _

* * *

And so he had scoured the city for her, visiting each of the clubs in her neighborhood and then circling outward in an ever-larger search area. Night after night he looked for her, sometimes finding people who said they'd seen a woman fitting her description, but she was never there and she didn't return to her loft during the night. Angel's frustration increased each night, his worry that she didn't actually exist outside his own mind blooming as the days ticked by. 

But now he knew he had found her. His eyes continued to search the blinking interior, skimming over the sea of bodies draped in black, the intermittent strobes of light illuminating the inhabitants with their pierced faces and black-lined eyes. Angel scanned the bar, table, and dance areas and found no sign of Buffy. Pushing his way through the crowd, he moved toward the dance floor, sure that's where he would find her. A woman with bright pink hair and a tight black vinyl dress moved in front of his path, flashing him a seductive smile as she held up a little baggie of blue pills. Pressing up against him, her breasts crushing into his arm, she spoke close to his ear.

"You look a little tense. I could take care of that for you . . . in more ways than one," she promised, pushing the hand that held the baggie under his leather duster and trailing it over his chest. Angel ignored her, still searching the interior. Finally, his eyes tracked up a staircase in the far corner to a balcony that overlooked the main floor.

And there she was.

He drank in the sight of her, not wanting to miss a single detail. Buffy was facing the iron railing of the balcony, her back pressed up against a man as she danced with an abandon he'd only seen in her once before. His eyes narrowed as he saw the man's hand snake out to wrap around the bare expanse of waist that was exposed between her tiny, pleated red-and-black plaid mini and the tight white tank top that was cut off so short that he caught glimpses of her black bra as she moved her arms over her head. Her hair was longer than he remembered and ran over her shoulders and back in tousled waves. She wore a winding silver band around one of her upper arms and a silver cross around her neck that reminded him of the one he'd given her all those years ago. Then his eyes were sliding up to rest on the face that had haunted his dreams for years.

Her eyes were trained on him, and she smirked as their gazes clashed.

"Hmmm, feels like someone's more interested than he's acting." At the sound of her voice, Angel's attention was drawn back to the woman pressed up against him. He hadn't noticed that her hand had moved down his chest and stomach, and was now resting over the outline of the bulge beginning to form in his black pants.

"Not in you," he bit out, removing her hand and stepping away from her. Angel ignored her pout and looked back to the balcony, only to find Buffy gone. Moving quickly forward, he pushed through the crowd, determined not to lose her now that he'd finally found her. He continued to scan the mass of people above as he approached the stairs, his hands absently pushing anyone who got in his way aside. As he reached the bottom step, Angel saw her slowly and coolly descending them, her eyes never leaving him.

She stopped two steps above him, the added height making her gaze level with his. Angel itched to reach out and touch her, pull her close and assure himself that his rioting senses weren't playing any tricks on him. This felt unreal, time moving so slowly he felt like his body and brain were surrounded and suspended in honey. Everything that he had felt when he saw Darla after she was brought back from the dead was magnified a thousand-fold and punctuated by the intensity of feelings he had for the woman who stood in front of him.

"Stalker, much?"

Angel saw her glossy lips moving, knew that she had said something sarcastic, but it was gone before his memory could process it. All he could concentrate on was the sound of her voice, the scent of her sweat, and the sight of her so close to him again . . . within touching distance. He reached out tentatively, his fingers grazing the flesh of her cheek before sweeping down to make contact with her slightly parted lips. He felt her breath catch and saw her eyes flash with the same electric awareness he was feeling at the touch.

"Buffy. . ." he murmured, so softly that there was no way she could have heard him in the loud club. Still, he saw her eyes harden once again as she stepped back up a stair, out of his reach. Then she was planting her hands on the stair railing and vaulting over it to the floor below, circumventing the need to brush past him and come within his reach again. Angel spun around and moved swiftly after her retreating form. She was moving fast, nimbly weaving her small body through the crowd, and he couldn't catch up with her until they were almost off the dance floor on the far side of the club. Reaching out, he grasped her roughly around the upper arm and spun her around to face him.

"Buffy, stop. . ." he tried again, his warring emotions of anger and longing sounding in his voice.

She glared at him for a split second before grabbing the arm that held her with her free hand and twisting her body. Angel felt his feet leave the floor as she spun him around, felt his grip loosen as his back rushed to meet the ground. In the next moment he found himself staring up at her booted foot planted on his chest. The crowd immediately surrounding them stilled their movements and looked at the small blonde overpowering the large, muscled man.

When she spoke, her voice was low and controlled, meant only for him with his vampire hearing. "Don't touch me, Angel. I'm not the person you think I am. You _really_ don't want to fuck with me."

Angel's anger won out as he pushed her foot off his chest and gracefully leapt to his feet. He moved close, allowing only a sliver of air to separate them, but he didn't touch her.

"Do you really want to do this here?" he hissed in her ear. Angel watched through narrowed eyes as she glanced at the audience surrounding them before giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. He felt her hair brush against his face and he breathed in the scent. Even in his state of anger, he rejoiced in the tangible signs that she was alive.

"Come on," she ordered as she moved toward the exit, not bothering to look back to see if he was following. There was no need. Angel wasn't going to let her out of his sight if he could help it. He silently stalked behind her, glaring darkly at anyone who dared to look at him wrong. Soon they were stepping out into the cooler night air and the bright street lights. Angel took in the sight of Buffy as she walked confidently in front of him, leading him to whatever destination she had in mind. The impressions he had gained from his brief glimpse of her a week ago were confirmed as he noted her more tightly defined biceps that led into feminine but muscular shoulders. His gaze traveled further down her body and everywhere he looked he saw a woman who was strong and lean. Buffy had always been thin and she had always been strong, but she had managed to maintain a deceptively small and dainty-looking build. Now no one with a trained eye could look at her and not see the athletic fighting machine she had become.

Once again, he wondered what in the hell had happened to her.

_

* * *

_

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod_

The refrain had been sounding on a continuous loop through her head since the moment she had seen him in the club.

_Felt him, really. Damn slayer senses only seemed to work on Him._

Knowing that he would be looking for her and not wanting to be found, she'd spent the last week staying a step ahead of him. She'd needed time to think about what she was going to do without having her head clouded by his presence and his questions. Unfortunately, he didn't have to actually be present to throw her off—she'd been fighting off the feelings that had suddenly hit her at his hotel ever since. No matter how much alcohol or drugs she consumed, she was in a state of turmoil that she didn't know quite how to deal with. Even her fighting technique was a little off—a regular vamp had been able to get close enough to leave bruises the night before and she honestly couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Slayer didn't know what the hell was happening to her, but she did know whose fault it was.

_His_.

Slayer shook her head and shot a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He was still staring at her—hadn't moved his eyes off her since they'd gotten into her car. At first he'd tried to ask her questions, calling her _that name_. When she continued to studiously ignore him as she concentrated on the road and feigned indifference, he sighed in frustration.

"_Buffy, please. . ."_ he said, and shook his head when she continued to ignore him.

Now he was just staring and her skin was crawling with awareness and she just wanted to. . .

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod_


	7. Empty Places

Angel followed her up the stairs to her loft, fighting the urge to grab her and shake her until she _talked _to him. His senses were rioting after being so close to her after so long apart, the car ride over here a blur of frustration, confusion and longing that set his already frazzled nerves on edge and his temper even closer to the surface. He couldn't help but notice that she avoided the elevator in favor of the stairs and wondered if she was feeling the same intense itch being confined with him as he was with her. They reached the heavy steel door, and she unlocked it, entered, and punched a security code into the box next to the door before turning to look at him. It was the first time she'd looked directly at him since leaving the club.

"Come in and make yourself at home. I'm going to take a shower," she said with a sigh, waving him in absently before turning her back on him and heading further into the apartment. He was only able to look into her eyes for a moment, but it was long enough to see the dilated pupils and slightly dazed look that softened them just enough to explain the rapid heart beat and increased body temperature he'd noticed in the confines of her car.

He snarled and grabbed her waist, his hand making contact with her bare skin and sending a jolt of awareness through his body. He ignored it as he spun her around to face him again. "What the hell is going on here Buffy? What happened to you?"

In an instant the dazed look in her eyes was replaced by a hard glitter as she planted a hand in his chest and pushed him back out of her personal space. Something flickered and then, just as quickly, her hard look melted into one of tired resignation.

"Look, shower first, then talk. I'm sweaty and I smell, and frankly, as much as you seem to be enjoying the naughtier version of Darla's school-girl outfit here," she looked down at the fly of his pants before continuing, "I'd rather not have this conversation with you while you look like you're going to make me your next meal."

Angel cursed his body's lack of control, and decided not to mention the signs of her own arousal that coursed through the air even as she spoke. It was true, though, that he had been struggling with his body's response to her since he first saw her in the club, moving _like that _in the tiny skirt and tinier shirt. He'd managed to regain some modicum of control on the ride here, but touching her bare skin had evoked another reaction in his lower regions. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this uncontrolled without the influence of magic. Taking a step back, he nodded, neither his face nor body betraying that he was anything but calm.

"Fine, take a shower. But Buffy? Then you talk."

Something dark and dangerous flashed across her face and he suddenly felt very much the vampire to her slayer. Then it was gone and she was turning toward the enclosed room in the middle of the loft. He watched her glide away, the pleats of her skirt barely covering her from his prying eyes and long expanses of bare legs ending in black lace-up combat boots. Her hair lay in long messy waves down her back, like she'd simply finger-combed it after a long, hard day in bed. . .

Gritting his teeth, Angel turned abruptly away and cursed himself for the direction of his thoughts. Buffy was miraculously alive, but something was clearly wrong with her and he couldn't seem to get a grip on his lust. He knew he needed to pull himself together so he could find out what had happened to her and what had caused her to change so much.

He couldn't quite believe how _much_ she had changed. Of course there was the way she looked—a little more Faith than the Buffy he remembered, more muscular, paler, edgier. But there were other things, too. The way she had downed him in the club, fast and efficient, had surprised him. She'd always been a little stronger than him, but the differences were miniscule and it had taken much more thrust and parry for either to gain any real advantage. Angel hadn't been taken down that fast in centuries.

Then there was the expert way that she handled her very expensive sports car, a definite change from the girl who once claimed that she and cars were "un-mixy things". Not to mention the car itself. Unless she was stealing them these days, it had to have set her back enough money to completely support several middle-class families for a year. He refused to think about the other things that had changed. During his waking hours, he studiously avoided the memory of the sounds she made when Wesley struck her flesh. He couldn't quite manage to keep them out of his dreams.

Hearing the sound of the shower starting, Angel took the opportunity to take a good look around her loft. It was large and spacious, with ceilings at least 20 feet high and a smooth polished concrete floor. There wasn't a lot of furniture on this side of the open space—just a large steel dining table with matching chairs, and a glass and steel drink cart in addition to the stainless steel kitchen appliances. The counters were covered in expensive black marble and were bare of the touches that usually adorned and personalized kitchens—no pictures, no overfilled bread baskets, no candles, no canisters or cookbooks. In fact, with the exception of a single piece of art that graced the interior wall, there were no decorations of any kind. The space seemed cold and impersonal to him, despite the clearly expensive items that made up its bones.

Walking over to the refrigerator, he opened it, feeling slightly guilty about intruding on Buffy's privacy but needing to know everything he could about her current existence. Angel frowned, his brow furrowing together in displeasure as he saw that the only contents were two dozen bottles of water, two jars of peanut butter, and several plastic containers of some colorless food. Taking one of the containers out, he opened it to find spirals of plain cooked pasta. A quick perusal of her freezer and cabinets revealed empty space that belied the fact that a human being lived here.

Angel's displeasure deepened and the worry that had been eating at him bloomed into near panic.

Something was seriously wrong.

Pacing over to the other side of the space, Angel saw two black leather chairs and a steel console holding a clearly expensive stereo. In the opposite corner, he saw the first signs of warmth and comfort in the loft. Her bed was large and covered in a white down comforter and a multitude of fluffy pillows. A wide window seat in one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and a small enclosed space that he guessed to be a closet were the only other structures in the huge apartment.

Running one hand absently through his hair, Angel turned around to face the bathroom and the sound of running water that was still filling the air. The sight that met his eyes made the blood that had been teasing his cock all night rush in and tighten him to nearly painful fullness. This side of the bathroom was enclosed only with glass blocks that muted but did not hide the woman standing under the spray of water that was so hot the steam billowed out of the open ceiling of the room into the larger loft space. Buffy stood facing the spray, her arms spread in front of her and braced against the shower wall, her head bowed. He could see the lush curve of her breast and a hint of the shadow between her legs through the dense glass and he swallowed back the moan that threatened to rend the air. As he watched, unable to look away, she slowly stood up and turned off the faucets.

The movement jolted Angel back to reality and he moved quickly to the other side of the loft, not wanting her to catch him devouring her with his eyes. He stopped in front of the painting on the wall and stared forward without seeing it, concentrating instead on taking deep breathes that, out of habit, often served to help him relax and regain his composure on the rare instances when he lost it.

He was still standing there, taking deep, measured breaths when he felt her approach. Turning slightly to the side, he watched as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye on her way past him to the refrigerator. Opening it, she took out a bottle of water and a container of cold pasta before grabbing a fork and coming back to perch on the edge of the table.

"I'd offer you something, but I'm fresh out of blood," she said, smirking at him before lifting a forkful of the bland looking food to her mouth.

Angel grunted and turned back to the painting in front of him, not quite ready to look at her despite her more modest attire of black yoga pants and baby-tee. He studied the abstract painting for the first time since noticing it gracing the wall. Angel didn't consider himself an expert on modern art, but one real look at this piece and he knew what it was. The only adornment in her sterile space was Kandinsky's Composition V, an abstract representation of the Resurrection of the Dead, and it wasn't a reproduction. Angel was disturbed by the morbidity of her choice at the same time his fears about the source of her obvious extravagant wealth grew.

"Nice painting," he commented, looking over his shoulder. "Seems kind of out of the price range of a Vampire Slayer, though."

Her eyes met his, unflinching, as she brought the bottle of water to her lips, took a deep drink and then shrugged.

Angel stalked slowly towards her, refusing to look away from her intense, challenging stare. There was a hard, aching knot in his chest caused by her seeming indifference and the knowledge that she had been here for well over a year without letting him know she was alive. He tried his best to suppress it, somehow knowing that sentimentality would not get him the information he wanted, needed from her.

"In fact, it seems like you've been doing fairly well for yourself. For a dead girl." Angel used all of his control to suppress the wince that threatened to accompany his harsh words. He wanted more than anything to pull her into his arms and whisper his joy at seeing her again in her ear, but it was clear that, as always was the case with her, his wishes were futile exercises of his soul. So instead he matched her hardness with his own.

A shadow passed over her face so swiftly that he couldn't be sure he had seen anything but the cool mirth that now shone in her eyes and was matched by the languid upturn of her lips.

"Angel, Angel, Angel. You haven't seen me in years and the first thing you want to talk about is my income? That's a little tacky, don't you think?" she drawled, tilting her head to the side, her shower-damp hair swinging and grazing over her the flesh of her forearm. He could see a fading ring of bruises around her wrist and anger flared in him at the thought of someone hurting her. If Wesley had touched her again. . .

Angel closed the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat, not stopping until he was standing between her swinging legs. Unthinking, he pulled the bottle of water out of her hand and set it down before gently lifting her wrist and running his thumb gently over the bruises. She sat perfectly still, her breath coming in shallow, fast puffs as she let him touch her. Angel's eyes glittered with anger and concern as he took in the sight of the finger-shaped stains that marred her skin. Raising her wrist to his lips, he felt her harsh intake of breath disturb the still air around them as he pressed them gently to her flesh for a split second.

"Did Wes do this to you?" he grit out, his lips moving against her skin with each syllable spoken.

His words broke the temporary spell that had held her still as he touched her, and she ripped her arm away from his hand and mouth.

"It's sweet of you to worry, Angel, but don't. Wes doesn't do anything to me I don't want him to," she bit out, planting her hands on the table and sliding back until Angel was no longer standing between her thighs.

"That doesn't answer my question," he growled, glaring at her as the anger and emptiness at the loss of her touch warred for dominance in him.

"It's none of your business," she countered, hopping off the table, and grabbing the now-empty pasta container and fork. Buffy stalked to the sink and rinsed the dishes, ignoring the seething vampire behind her.

Angel clenched his fists in an effort to stop himself from punching the nearest wall, and struggled against the anger that was quickly consuming him. Then, just as suddenly, it was gone and he sagged under the invisible weight of his thoughts and emotions and the feelings of being with her, in the place she lived. Pulling out a chair from the table, he sunk down and stared out the bank of windows that made up the outer wall in front of him at the L.A. skyline. The multitude of thoughts and feelings that had been inundating him with constant stimulus over the past week faded and he was left with a deep, empty ache in their wake.

A minute, perhaps two, passed as he stared silently out the window and then she was in his line of vision, standing in front of the windows and looking out as though trying to see what held his attention. Standing, he slowly made his way next to her, making sure he kept some distance between them in spite of his urge to ease the ache by touching her again.

The silence was almost companionable as they continued to take in the sites of the city, and Angel was loathe to disrupt it, but he had to. He had to know how she was here.

"How . . . how did this happen? Did Wolfram & Hart do this? Did they bring you back?" He hated the plaintive note that crept into his voice, but he couldn't control it any better than he had been able to control anything in her presence this night.

Angel felt, more than saw, her flinch at the mention of the law firm. He spun to face her, sure she was going to tell him that they had brought her back to life to torment him, that they were the ones who were financing her extravagant, if empty, lifestyle. The thought that they would do this to her, after all of their failures with Darla, made the rage begin to bubble to the surface once again.

"No, it wasn't Wolfram & Hart," she answered, her voice low and almost touched with an emotion other than anger for the first time. . . something he might have identified as shame if it made any sense to him to do so. He studied her face carefully, could see that she was telling the truth.

"Then . . . what? How Buffy? Please. I need to know," Angel prompted, unable to care any longer that he was betraying his confusion and longing in every sound that left his throat.

She glanced away, studying the night for another moment and he watched her in the glass, wondering if he was imagining things or if he could actually see her eyes cloud in the reflection.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Angel. It happened. I was dead, then I was alive. I dug my way out of my grave, 'cause coffins? Pretty satin interior but not too much in the way of oxygen. Now I'm here. End of story."

"Oh, god. Buffy," he breathed, his pain at hearing how she woke up buried alive more poignant because he himself knew how that felt. He tensed to reach out to her, but she sensed his movement, and turned to face him with her palm held out to stop him. Angel watched the emotions play across her face— terror, agony, and confusion that nearly crushed him with their intensity. For the first time since she had emerged from the shower, scrubbed free of makeup and without the mask of indifference she seemed to wear with ease, he saw just how drained and tired she looked. Dark circles ringed her eyes, making them stand out in sharp relief against her beautiful face and he wondered when the last time she got any sleep was.

"Buffy. . ." he murmured again, the quiet invitation for comfort evident in the timbre of his voice.

Her eyes flew to his, naked longing on her face and he opened his arms as she took a step toward him. Then, just as quickly, her body went rigid and the longing was replaced with panic. His heart wrenched as she backed away from him, the hard mask that he barely recognized as belonging to the woman who held his heart settling back onto her face.

"Buffy. Is. Dead," she grit out, emphasizing each word as it slid past her fury-clenched lips. "I've been cutting you some slack because I realize this must be difficult for you, seeing a walking ghost, but I don't answer to that name. Don't _ever_ call me that again. You can call me Slayer, or Diana if you absolutely insist, but _never_ call me Buffy."

Angel stared at her, his thoughts whirling as he tried to understand what she was telling him.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he choked out.

She made a face and backed up further until she had cleared the table and made her way over to a kitchen drawer that, he knew from snooping, held a jumble of papers and mail. She wasn't talking, though, and he was desperate to know what she meant. Slayer? Buffy dead?

"What do you mean, you're dead?" he repeated.

Turning back toward him with a large manila envelope in her hand, she rolled her eyes and held it out to him.

"No, _I'm_ alive. _Buffy's_ dead," she said again, as though speaking to a child who was willfully misunderstanding a perfectly logical statement. "And really, Angel, you're spending way too much time asking the wrong questions. What you should be asking is what I was doing lurking outside your hotel that night." Handing him the envelope, she continued. "What you should be asking is if Wolfram & Hart isn't paying my bills, who is?"

He opened the envelope and read the single sheet of paper inside:

_Target: Vampire_

_Home Location: Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles_

_Deadline: 11-21_

Angel's eyes flew back to hers, darkening with the burgeoning understanding of the answers to all of his questions about her and the life she was leading.

"What you should be asking, Angel, is how we're going to stay alive when the government agency I work for comes after you and your friendly assassin when I don't meet my deadline in a week."

The crinkling of the paper as Angel balled the hand he held it in into a fist was the only sound that disturbed the silence in the wake of her revelations.

_Oh Buffy, no. _


End file.
